The War Mask

(The masque of war)

Woe. Toil and torment, Songs of war ferment, sadness for all. Too terible to contemplate, endless journey's war. Alas, too much grief to bear, How shall the song end?
Seattle's words lost in an endless ocean of TV. Ponder the future -- or else past's errs repeat. Long the journey into darkness, Easy the way of hatred and war. And what of a man who was far from tidy? Has his message been over-written too? The prophet, the saviour, the moses -- all just convenient confetti for a war's parade.
Poom, Poom, Poom begin the reverberate-ing drrums of war.
The call goes out for blood --- blood to help the surviors. And then blood calls out for more --- this to run red on Earth's green carpet. Until there is no more to flow. Is this to be our fate?
My words are sure to offend, (for surely, Shirley), I feel and am cut and die. For from the pen in my hand flows the collective un-consicous that sinks back into a comfortable chair and watches TV's re-assure-ing glow -- as little sparkler lights reveal our technical victory.... Until. The next generation bides its time. And again, the drums will sound their way -- demanding more blood, a finer, richer, newer sacrifice to the god of war.
Sketch of a tribal war mask.
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